


Resist Your Fate

by LoudShrugging



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon-Typical Violence, Fix-It of Sorts, Gen, Minor Aera Mirus Fleuret/Ardyn Izunia, Temporary Character Death, Time Loop, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-11
Updated: 2020-08-11
Packaged: 2021-03-06 04:01:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,937
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25843255
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoudShrugging/pseuds/LoudShrugging
Summary: The King struggles valiantly but Fate always favours the Monster.
Relationships: Ardyn Izunia & Somnus Lucis Caelum
Comments: 4
Kudos: 34





	Resist Your Fate

**Author's Note:**

> ffxv lives rent free in my head and i'm angry about it

The combined efforts of the Kingsglaive and Crownsguard do little to deter him when he marches on the Citadel with single minded intention. Barely a flick of his wrist, and they get swatted away like flies, barely worth his attention. 

It’s child’s play, really. They huddle close to each other, backs pressed against the Citadel gate, as if numbers and architecture would protect them from the bite of his blade. Ardyn smiles with too much teeth, lowers himself in a mockery of a bow. 

“I request an audience with your king,” he calls, as if he were here to make a social call; as if he hadn’t murdered his way up to their doorstep. White knuckling their weapons, the king’s pawns exchange fearful glances. 

“Come now,” he drawls, “Where is that famed Lucian hospitality? I’ve come a long way, you know.” _Longer than they could ever fathom._ Ardyn can feel his patience for this farce running thin. The bravest of the lot throws themself at him with a battlecry. Ardyn doesn’t hold back.

He’s through most of them, picking off Glaive stragglers who try to turn tail and run when the Citadel gates creak. He quickly ends his game of cat and mouse to face the lone figure that steps out.

“No Shield today, Your Majesty?” Ardyn doesn’t wait for a reply. 

Spectral swords come to life around them. Regis is a powerful king in his own right, but he lacks the edge Ardyn has; doesn’t feel the same familiarity Ardyn does as they dance around each other in a deadly light show. He can tell Regis puts his all into the battle — he always does; too much to protect, too much to lose, failure was never an option — but the outcome is always the same. 

It ends as it always does: The vaunted King of Lucis, brought to his knees. 

_“Adagium,”_ Regis hisses through laboured breaths. He glares up at the daemon as well as one can when they barely have the energy left to raise their head. 

“Ardyn,” he corrects perhaps a bit too smugly, “None of that title nonsense. We are family after all, eh, Regis?

“And since you know who I am, you don’t need to ask why I’m here, do you?” 

He thought he would never get tired of seeing despair fill those eyes. ( _Do you feel it, Somnus? The destruction of the throne you coveted so? Does it hurt you as much as it hurts them?)_ Once, Ardyn would’ve savoured it. Drunk it in like a starving man searching for scraps of food; now he only feels weariness set into his bones. 

Better make it quick then, especially when the air around them becomes charged with electricity, making the mop of auburn hair on his head even more unruly. The darkness within him twists unpleasantly in response. Ardyn raises Rakshasa high above his head for the final blow when they’re interrupted by a terrified scream. 

A little black blur darts out from the Citadel, followed by an equally horrified nanny. She spots him in an instant. Bloodied, with the king at his feet, the woman stops in her tracks, loyalty warring with self preservation within her.

It costs them. The child is fast, fearlessly throwing himself between Ardyn and the king. He thinks it’s Somnus at first, young and fierce, not yet tried by the trials of the world. It makes him hesitate, the Rakshasa blade quivering in his hand for the first time since his awakening. He blinks and the illusion is gone in a flash of white hot pain; the King of Light stands between him and his father, shaking in his boots but unyielding. 

For the first time, a bright spark of fear lights the king’s eyes. He opens his mouth to beg; Ardyn isn’t listening. The king makes a final, feeble attempt at summoning the weapons in his Armiger. Ardyn easily knocks them aside, ignoring the growing burn in the back of his mind as he mercilessly swings his sword at the King of Light. 

“Where is your honour now,” he snarls under his breath, knowing Bahamut can hear him. He gets one final glimpse at the despair in Regis Lucis Caelum’s eyes before Bahamut’s sword prison closes around him. King of Light dead, script ruined, Ardyn likes to think Bahamut careless enough to strike Regis down with one of those massive swords. The pawns don’t matter after the plan fails, after all. 

  
  


* * *

  
  


In the space of a breath, the familiar feeling of weightlessness envelopes him, sucking the air from his lungs. The Astral Realm was not made for mortals. Despite the boons his curse grants him, body more ichor than flesh and blood, Ardyn still feels the strain of it. Like he’s being squeezed and pulled apart at the same time. His heart beats frantically, unsure of what to do when blood freezes in his veins and lungs strain for air.

“Everything in this world is preordained. Best not fight against it, Adagium. Dost thou not tire of this farce?” Bahamut’s blade prison holds him captive for Aera, face lovely and tranquil as ever, doles out the Draconian’s punishment. The bite of her trident is familiar now. 

Ardyn finds it in him to laugh. “You think you can break me,” he drawls, low and dangerous, spitting a mouthful of ichor at her feet. “You think taunting me with Aera’s face will force me to kneel to you.

“Take her,” Ardyn snarls, then laughs. Monsters don’t need attachments; he renounced his place among humans two thousand years ago. One would think an immortal would know an immortal, but Bahamut only seems capable of seeing his human skin. “She means nothing to me now, I don’t care. You still can’t make me bend.”

Bahamut must not see any point in arguing with him anymore because he’s nowhere to be seen. The first Oracle carries out his sentence, releasing Ardyn from the sword prison despite his opposition. 

“Thou will learn—” She smiles but it’s empty. Ardyn collapses despite himself and she stares— “Eventually.” There is finality in her tone, like she _knows_ , but Ardyn knows she doesn’t. As much as the Astrals go on and on about predestination, the only one who makes his fate is him and he— 

Ardyn doesn’t need to open his eyes to know he’s kneeling on the jagged stones of Angelgard. At a glance, calling the pile of rock a prison would seem generous. These brittle stones could not hold anyone — the door is right there; gaping and mocking, an exit one could take at any time. He’s free to go, but instead he lays on that cold, hard ground, not bothering to open his eyes. 

_“Out there,”_ the stones would whisper, if they could speak, _“Once you step out there, it is the Gods’ world. You play by their rules out there.”_

He barks a mirthless laugh at no one in particular. They’ll see about that. 

  
  


* * *

  
  


The first time, Ardyn made a production of it: Hung a carrot on a stick, scattered breadcrumbs across Eos, basked in their suffering — the whole Shebang, as the kids call it. 

His coronation is attended by a court of daemons. They don’t watch, exactly, more interested in tearing into the poor glaives he tosses into the room. The sounds of flesh tearing and bones cracking follow his slow march up to the throne. Ardyn sits, watches the daemons turn from the corpses to each other and thinks his kingdom beautiful.

For once, the passage of time is almost blissful. He rules, simple as that. Sometimes, Ardyn wanders out from his gilded cage, leers at the creatures who struggle to survive despite their certain doom. No matter how far out he wanders, Ardyn always returns to hold court, clinging to the seat of his birthright with so much fervour he decorates it with pieces of himself.

When the King of Light and his retinue appears, Ardyn lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. Sitting back in his ill begotten throne, he savours their struggles upward. This is what the gods must feel like, he thinks, when they watch the little people pray below. Exhilarating, like he’s playing a game rather than toying with the fate of a world.

It’s like crushing a particularly annoying mosquito, the way Ardyn knocks the King of Light’s blade wide and sends his armiger through the opening he creates, making his chest look as hollow as Ardyn feels. No amount of blessings from the Astrals can hope to give the boy — because that’s what he is, even at thirty; no more than a speck of dust compared to Ardyn’s endless existence — a chance at beating him. When the King of Light’s last breath rattles against his sword, Ardyn thinks he feels, for the first time, a bright spark of life settle into his bones.

The body doesn’t even have a chance to cool before Bahamut is collecting him, denying Ardyn a glimpse at the future he’s forged. As always, Aera awaits him, lovely and serene as she once again recounts his fate. As always, he is deposited on the unforgiving stones of Angelgard.

  
  


* * *

  
  


The Lucian throne still fits like it was made for him. Ardyn arranges himself carefully, crossing his legs and leaning his head on a fist like he doesn’t have a care in the world. He leans his head back so he could look down imperiously at the broken king at his feet. Beaten bloody, one leg snapped, it’s all the man could do to sit up, leaning heavily against the side of his throne to stay upright. Despite his injuries, Regis Lucis Caelum still manages to look regal, turning his eyes up to meet Ardyn’s. 

“Do you think he’ll show?” Ardyn resists the urge to kick the man flat on his back. He wants the broken king to be upright and lucid when it happens. For all his quiet grace, Ardyn does not miss the way Regis Lucis Caelum’s face tightens when he taunts him. 

Not phased by the lack of response, Ardyn hums merrily to himself as he waits, ignoring his impatience churning below the surface. Glauca is a competent leader, keeping his troops out of sight as the city gates are open for the passage of escaping citizens and stupid princes. He knows the moment a shiny black car is spotted entering the city, speeding straight towards the Citadel like a bullet. 

His earpiece crackles with activity as reports start coming in. Four men fighting their way through the lobby of the Citadel. Ardyn takes it out of his ear, turning the volume up so both of them could listen to the prince and his retinue make their way upwards. 

“You have a good son.” He grins, drinking in the sight of Regis at his feet, looking pale and stricken. “Coming all the way back for daddy. Isn’t that heartwarming?”

The verbal reports have ceased now, replaced by the boom of gunfire and the occasional ring of steel against steel. It’s a wonder how the old man at his feet seems to come alive with each passing second, fear and worry cracking his noble mask.

“Please.” The soft plea is almost swallowed up by the wide expanse of the throne room. Ardyn pretends not to hear; the old man wets his lips and tries again. “The ring and the crystal— you have everything you need. You have—” _Me_. The words of an old man fighting a losing battle for something more precious than his own life. Ardyn doesn’t stop the amused quirk of his lips. It’s better than frowning at the churning in the pit of his stomach.

No time for that — the doors to the throne room burst open.

“It’s me you want, let my father go.” Noctis Lucis Caelum is shouting for him before he even fully enters the room, strutting in with his head held high despite walking towards his own execution. He’s alone; by the sound of fighting coming through his earpiece, the prince left his retinue behind and rushed ahead. With no royal arms, the prince calls an unremarkable sword to his hand and charges. 

Ardyn doesn’t even bother to get off his throne. His armiger bursts to life around him, reaching out to parry at the behest of a thought. 

“How heartwarming,” he drawls, projecting his voice as if making a speech to an audience. “Father and son, offering their lives for each other. Which one shall I take?” 

He makes a show of consideration, sitting up and offering his attention first to the one at his feet; then fixes a leer at the one glaring up at Ardyn with fire in his eyes like the choice wasn’t made lifetimes ago. Ardyn grins. “Which one, indeed.”

The broken king at his feet makes a choked sound, like a wounded animal.

Their clash is short. This prince has no experience, no power— nothing to help him counter Ardyn’s millennia of experience. Ardyn doesn’t even have to play dirty. Herding the prince backwards with each blow, making him trip and stumble up the stairs to the dais.

“Is it so precious to you? Your throne? Your country? Your gods?” Ardyn spares a glance at Regis who has gone white as a sheet, flashing the man a grin before he shoves the prince back into the padded chair before he has the chance to reply. 

“Have it then,” he snarls, pushing Rakshasa unceremoniously into Noctis Lucis Caelum’s chest until only the sound of the prince’s wet gurgles and the broken king’s ignored pleas fill the throne room. 

Ardyn lets go of the blade, leaving the prince pinned there. He leans back, stretching his aching shoulders and drinks in the moment. Triumph is the copper stench of a fresh kill and the ugly weeping of a shattered old man. 

  
  


* * *

  
  


“How long will thou continue to play this game, Adagium?”

“What? Tired already?” Ardyn grins despite the pain from his restraints. “Thought you had more stamina than that, Bahamut, being a god and all.” 

“Is this how thou would have the legacy of the benevolent and beloved healer end? Dost thou not want to rest?” Her cool hands gently trace the panes of his face. 

It’s worth it, sometimes. To resist, to defy the gods and come back here to see the last vestige of a bygone era. Shamelessly, Ardyn allows himself to lean into her hands, mind drifting back. Somnus could have the throne he so coveted. All Ardyn wanted was to live out the rest of his days in quiet. A cottage in the woods, half a day’s walk from the nearest village. It would be isolated, but not lonely. Dog days punctuated by the delight of their children. 

“This cannot go on forever, Adagium. Answer thine calling, heal the darkness.” Aera’s cold voice brings him back. Her countenance is stoic and emotionless, despite the way her thumbs rub along his cheekbones like she used to. It’s easy to imagine the way her lips seemed permanently set into a smile, eyes sparkling when they caught the light.

“To spread darkness throughout the world. Is that not my true calling?” He grins into her hands. “It was _preordained._ ”

Instantly, Aera’s hands fell away from his face. If temperature existed in the Astral Realm, it would have dropped several degrees as the Oracle’s trident materializes in her hands. 

  
  


* * *

  
  
  


Sometimes he waits, thirsting for the blood of the True King. 

He waits on the shores of Angelgard with bloody gifts. 

They dance above the ruins of Insomnia. 

The King struggles valiantly but Fate always favours the Monster. 

Other times, he doesn’t bother. 

Slipping a knife soundly between the boy’s ribs at Gauldin Quay before his retinue is any the wiser.

Pushing the prince into the Archean’s prison to the sounds of his retainers’ distress. 

The prince is easy to break, sobbing when his friends drop like flies around him; unable to fight back when the Rakshasa blade comes for his life.

It’s satisfying. It’s empty. Victories upon victories that carry him to Aera, then land him back at the beginning. It’s not weariness that settles into his bones, it’s victory.

It’s a wonder how the King never seems to falter, never shirks from his fate. 

Ardyn is glad for the height of the dais. The throne offers the perfect view as the King and his retinue enter. Whatever words prepared for him die on the King’s lips as they take in the view. The little blonde one only needs an eyeful before he’s bent in two, retching loudly over the dusty stones. 

“I took the liberty to do some remodelling,” he grins, leaning forward to better soak in the horrified looks on each of their faces. It had taken quite a lot of time to construct all the different corpses from memories. But that’s okay, all Ardyn had was time. Before them hang ten good years of work: a forest of bodies swinging gently in the draft, all of them their prince and their King in various stages of death. “You like it, I take it?” 

The King’s retainers come at him with a fierceness Ardyn had not seen before. 

It’s not enough. Despite their efforts, four broken bodies end up smeared across the throne room.

 _It’s not enough._ Ardyn waits for that bright spark of life settle into his bones but there’s nothing there. 

  
  


* * *

  
  
  


The King of Light comes to him this time. 

Not the King— a simple little prince. 

Ardyn is sitting on the cliff overlooking Insomnia when the boy approaches him. He doesn’t bother to turn, leaving his back open. No matter how painful a blade sliding into his flesh feels, what’s immortal cannot die. 

“Delivering yourself to death now, are you?” 

“Call Niflheim off.” The voice of a child, but age beyond his years creeps into it. “Kill Aldercapt, and I’ll let you have me.” 

He can’t help himself. Ardyn throws his head back and laughs, loud bellows that echo within his hollow flesh. He stands and finds himself towering over a still growing teenager. “And what makes you think I won’t just strike you down where you stand, boy.”

“Aren’t you tired of doing this over and over, Ardyn?” The boy’s lips press into a tight line. There’s no fear in his eyes, only determination. “I don’t want my friends to watch me die anymore— ” and then so softly, Ardyn almost misses it— “I don’t want to watch them die anymore.” 

Ardyn answers with a knife in the boy’s throat. 

  
  


* * *

  
  


So what if he is tired? Fate demands he bring the darkness, so he brings it. And if the King of Light is not strong enough to prevail, well, that’s not his problem. 

The stink of blood is permanently seared into his nostrils. Rakshasa biting into flesh like it’s greeting an old friend. Over and over again until his hands are numb and his body feels fake, carrying out his orders like a vacant MT. 

For Aera, he tells himself. For the ghost of a brother who left him behind. Bahamut punishes him and renews his spite, provides the fire Ardyn needs to forge a will harder than steel. 

He levels Crown City; makes the King watch as he executes his family, one by one. 

Besithia’s daemons batter the wall until the prince runs out, begging. 

Turning the King’s retainers is easy — just install the right parts and they’re his. Ardyn has them waiting to greet the King at Angelgard where they tear into him and then each other like starving animals. It’s nice having the work done for him. 

Something small and metal rolls against his boot amidst the carnage. It’s curiosity that has him picking up the Ring of the Lucii. It slides on easily, like it was always meant to be there. 

_A̵d̶a̴g̴i̷u̵m̵.̶_

The old kings chorus inside his head, soft whispers that feel like they’re picking his brain apart. There’s a droning in the background, like someone is calling out to him but Ardyn can hardly form a thought. He’s burning, _oh god he’s burning._ He didn’t know there could be a pain worse than the Draconian’s blade prison but the pale blue flames licking up his arm gives the Astral a good run for his money.

_Brother._

Some of the pain starts ebbing away, like a receding tide. He hears the whisper of Somnus’ voice again and the flames fade, leaving behind a more bearable pain. Swallowing, he barely feels the back of his throat ache. He was screaming, he realized. At some point, the ring had brought him to his knees. 

When he finally finds the strength to raise his head, it’s not the bloodied steps of Angelgard he sees. Golden fields spread out as far as the eye can see. Ardyn feels the pit of his stomach twist violently with longing. He used to meet with Aera here— right there by the gnarled old tree— shielded from view by the tall stalks of wheat, it was their quiet little corner. 

And before that, he and Somnus came here when they were giving their tutors the slip. Playing nonsense make believe games, it was the refuge of two children who did not yet know the horrors of the world.

He feels the weight of two thousand years bear down on his shoulders as he drags his flesh under the old tree’s eaves. Somnus waits for him there. Ardyn lowers himself heavily to the ground next to him. Looking up, Ardyn admires the way golden light seeps through the leaves. It doesn’t burn him here. 

“How did we get here?” The earthy scent of wheat washes over him and it reminds him so much of _home_. Ardyn leans his back against the gnarled trunk. Maybe if he closes his eyes, he’ll remember what sleep feels like.

“For the many to prosper, a few must suffer is what the Gods decree.” Somnus laughs bitterly. “The Gods want to know if mankind is worthy of inheriting this star— and gifted us with the privilege of representing them.

“Don’t you tire of this, brother,” Somnus continues when Ardyn doesn’t answer, too focused on the concept of rest. “Don’t you want to be free?”

“Remember when Opsia made you go to the market with her every week? And you would always come back crying but you wouldn’t tell me why?” 

Somnus genuinely laughs for what feels like the first time since childhood. “You couldn’t come because you were stuck in lessons,” he continued, “But you skipped them once. Beat Gallus bloody, then went home and had your hide stripped by father for skipping.”

“You came home with that broken nose. I couldn’t stand it anymore.” The smile that stretches across Ardyn’s face feels unlike any other. “What happened to us, Somnus?”

“Submit to your fate already.” The temperature around them drops several degrees. Colour bleeds out of their surroundings. Ardyn could see the illusion from the ring fading, the jagged crags of Angelgard lingering underneath. “This has gone on for far too long.” 

Gritting his teeth, Ardyn lurches to his feet, a feral sound ripping itself from his sore throat before he could form a thought. Somnus gets up at a more measured pace, holding his hands up in a pacifying gesture. “Do it for yourself, brother,” he finishes softly.

“After all they did to us,” Ardyn growls, volume rising, “To _me_. You would roll over like a dog and let the Astrals win?”

Somnus’ mouth moves, but Ardyn can only hear the crash of waves on the shore, the beat of Bahamut’s wings against the air, the ring of metal as he’s pulled into Bahamut’s prison. 

  
  


* * *

  
  


“You’ll have to forgive me. I don’t have the energy to receive you properly today.” Ardyn sags in his manacles. His weariness is soul-deep, puncturing even the ichor contained within to touch a part of himself he thought had shrivelled away long ago. Aera’s gentle hands cup his face, forcing him to look at her. He meets her gaze with resolve. They don’t need to do this song and dance again for him to resist the fate bestowed on him. “Just send me on my way, love.”

She cards her hands through his hair, taking his silence as submission. Ardyn wants to laugh. Does Bahamut think this will sway him? 

The ring on his finger glows. Ardyn flinches away from it, expecting burning, expecting pain; but the ring feels warm on his finger. The feeling starts in his hand then extends through his body, filling up all the hollow spots with a gentle light that does not burn. 

**What is the meaning of this, Mystic.**

“It’s time this ended, Blademaster.” Somnus steps into view beside him. The light that fills him responds to Somnus, exploding outwards as he comes near. The blade prison around Ardyn shatters into a million crystalline pieces. 

Somnus catches him before he could stumble too far forward. Together, they look up to see the Draconian in all his glory, magnificent and statuesque. A god in every sense of the word. 

The thing about gods is that they tend to be short sighted, too focused on their laurels and prophecies. _Their preordination._

Ardyn finds it in himself to stand tall, head up despite the weight of Fate trying to force him to his knees. Around them, the Old Wall gathers. The Rogue is the first one to run him through, he thinks. Ardyn never really bothered to learn about the Lucis Caelum line. He stumbles back into Somnus’ steadying hands. Something bright and hopeful blooms in the darkness, pushing back the ichor.

They make quick work of it. One after the other until Ardyn feels like he’s overflowing. He’s surprised he’s not spilling light out of every orifice. 

“I grant you the power of the Lucii, brother. Use it well.” There is too much left unsaid between them. Even if they tried, they would never manage to get it all out— but the look they exchange in that moment said more than words ever will. Somnus gives his arm a firm squeeze. Ardyn offers a wry smile. And then the specter of his brother is running him through. 

Ardyn explodes. Or it feels like he explodes. The light is so blinding, he can’t see anything for a few seconds. Or minutes, or years, or decades — it’s hard to tell in the Astral Realm, and even harder to tell when it feels like his physical body doesn’t exist anymore. 

He’s still in one piece though. And so is Bahamut, waiting with the patience of a being who has existed for too many millennia and expects to exist for dozens more. Ardyn flexes his fingers, reacquaints himself with his limbs.

“ _This_ is what you’ve been squirrelling away inside the ring with the crystal?” Ardyn is almost too shocked to form words, a slow burning sort of rage bubbling up within him. The light responds to him, kicks up a breeze inside the airless Astral Realm that threatens to grow into a typhoon. “You had all this power and you couldn’t — _wouldn’t_ — do anything with it?” 

**Mankind cannot live without the Grace of the Gods, but he must also not learn to depend on it. They must earn our Mercy, prove their worth.**

“No.” Ardyn doesn’t flinch when one of Bahamut’s enormous swords swings towards him. It’s intercepted before it hits, Somnus looming protectively overhead. 

He tests his new power by summoning his armiger. The weapons come to life around him, larger than life in a size rivaling the Draconian’s shining blades. Ardyn raises his hand, and they turn, fly, lethal points aimed straight for the Astral’s heart. A circle of blades forms a shield, holding for a moment before Ardyn channels more of the ring’s power into his armiger. The power of the blitz renews, and the Draconian’s shield shatters in a brilliant firework of crystal.

In comparison, the armour the Astral is encased in does precious little to dampen the force of his blades. Cracking like fine porcelain, the Draconian seems to realise something is amiss and takes off, the blades of Ardyn’s armiger trailing after him. 

“The age of gods is long past. They don’t need your asinine judgements, your senseless tests.” 

With Somnus his steadfast shield, Ardyn concentrates on the power of the Lucii. His armiger grows brighter, faster, nipping at the heels of the god then overtaking him, drilling mercilessly through his armour to reach whatever flesh the god keeps locked away. 

It’s only afterwards that Ardyn realises the ring was eating him away. He looks down and sees a burned husk, turns to say something to Somnus who is still looming over him but finds his lips turning to ash. 

  
  


* * *

  
  


Despite Somnus’ talent with illusions, nothing his brother conjures could rival the real thing. The Dawn takes its time, lazy golden fingers stretching out like a content cat waking from slumber. Bathed in its golden light, the scars left on the land don’t look as deep; the future feels less like a weight.

Ardyn inhales and his lungs don’t feel like they’re filling with miasma. He turns his head upwards towards the brightening sky and for the first time in millennia, the sun is a warm and welcomed friend.

“Do you think they’ll be okay?” Somnus asks, watching four figures emerge into the light. The light haired one jumps for joy, grabbing his dark haired friend in a playful headlock. Ardyn smiles softly, turns away, his brother trailing not far after. 

“They’ll figure it out.”

**Author's Note:**

> im sorry regis you didn't deserve any of that


End file.
